


Floss

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [22]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Five Plus One, Fluff, Gigolas Week 2, Headcanon, Jewellery, Kittens, M/M, culture clash, elves and ears, elves are weird, so much headcanon about weird elves, teeth cleaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Legolas and Gimli come up against cultural differences.</p><p>And one time they agreed.</p><p> </p><p>(Fits into Just Maybe/Red Star Rising universe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floss

**One**

**Somewhere in Fangorn, August 27th in the year 3019 of the Third Age**

**(Friends. Just friends.)**

Four days since we left the others.

Four days of just the two of us. No more escort of the court, no more of Elessar as he now is, no more Gandalf, or all the rest of the fine lords. No bloody troops of elves, no willing Rohirrim, no sombre Men of Gondor, no happy little hobbits.

Just my elf and I.

Not my elf. Don’t think like that, Gimli, just the elf. 

My friend.

That’s right. Friends. 

Friends is good.

Be nice to have more – but elves don’t. You know this.

So stop bloody thinking about the look of him, stop wondering about the feel of him.

Listen to him chatter about trees.

Listen to his singing.

And oh sweet Durin’s cock how that elf can sing. Never known anything like it.

Four sodding days of elf-singing, elf strangeness.

This though – this is beyond weird.

What the fuck is he doing now?

“Master elf,” I say, trying for the usual tone of teasing, “what are you doing?”

Well, I can see what he is doing – but I cannot for the life of me think why. Bloody mad elf has carefully sat and taken some hair out of his comb – and there was a fair amount of sidelong looks going on – no idea why – and is now – looks like – bloody twisting it together.

Why?

Sweet Mahal, what the fuck?

He shrugs, and that pretty face gives nothing away,

“I am doing as I often do – in all this time have you not noticed? I know you do not – I suppose dwarven hair is too – weak – no – peace – I – perhaps – mortals seem not to – maybe you do not need to – the meat – it is not like lembas.”

Coherent as ever.

“Fucks sake, what are you on about? No, the meat is not like lembas. Well done. But – what do you intend to do with that?”

But even as I ask, I suddenly realise.

Bloody weird elves.

Can’t even pick their sodding teeth normally.

I suppose there is probably a special song about this.

He is looking a bit pink about the ears – don’t know why, exactly – but anyway – that is indeed what he is doing.

Cleaning his teeth.

And – honestly – all these weeks, months, I have seen him do some pretty fucking weird elf things – but this. Takes the sodding biscuit. 

This hair obsession is – is beyond anything.

I have seen him use his hair as a firelighter, in places where tinder was scarce, or wet – fair enough, dwarves do that, although I think it was a new one to our other companions. I have seen him use a strand of it to sew with – not good enough for making clothes, I am told, but for quick repairs. I have seen him use it as string, to fasten a flapping pack. I have even – ridiculous though it sounds – heard him speak of some system of knots on trees they have that they can use for simple messages in his own dark, misbegotten forest – and I suppose that is not so very different to cave sign.

But this – this is just bloody weird.

“You – you do not?” he asks, and I am brought back to the conversation, and I move, realising that in sitting and watching him – watching his pretty tongue, his lovely white teeth, the movement of his hands – even while I have been thinking how odd he is – well. It seems my body was thinking other thoughts.

The sort of thoughts that are not helpful.

Pretty elf does not want to fuck.

“No,” I answer and it comes out as a growl, “no, I am not an elf, I do not have this bloody hair obsession. If I want my teeth clean, I shall do as Mahal intended. I shall rub them with soot, and then rinse it off. No hair needed.”

He looks at me, his – whatever you call it – forgotten – horror in his eyes.

“Soot? You would put soot in your mouth? I – I have seen the halflings chew on sticks – and that – that I have heard of before – but – soot?”

I shrug.

“You don’t honestly think dwarves would use bits of tree if there were bits of rock around, do you, elf?”

And he smiles at me – and perhaps this laughter, this friendship is enough.

 

 

 

Soot.

For a moment I think he is concocting an elaborate joke – but no. He means it.

Oh.

And – and the way he speaks of hair – he does not understand.

He does not like to watch me comb out my hair.

He does not notice whether I am unbound before him, not really, not in the way I want him to notice. 

And I do not really know, not really, why I want him to watch, to look, to – to touch.

He does not see that my hair is fine, is clean, is – is all that elven hair should be.

He will not comb me.

He does not wish to touch my hair, to hold me, to – anything.

It matters not how clean my teeth are – he does not wish to teach me this – kissing.

I try to tell myself I would not wish to kiss one who puts soot in his mouth – but I would. If only he would see it.

I smile, and wish – wish – that this friendship was enough.

 

 

 

 

**Two**

**Minas Tirith, Spring, Year One of the Fourth Age**

**(vowed some – three days perhaps)**

“Fucks sake, elf, what are you doing?” I say, and he stops, and looks at me.

“I am tidying up – Gimli-nin – my beloved dwarf – my most untidy dwarf – you have scattered – things – everywhere and – and when I ask you to comb me this evening, you will not know where my comb is – and – and it bothers me. I – I cannot live like this – your – bits and pieces – all over – everywhere. There is no order to it, no sense to it – I – I know you are not going to change – but if I just – put things where they should be – I do not see why you would mind?”

Fucks sake.

I have only been out of the room for what – a few minutes – and – he has moved everything. 

Bloody elf.

“I mind,” I say, slowly, trying to keep my temper, “because those are my clothes, my mail, my weapons, mine. If I wanted them moved, I would move them. If you want them moved, you ask. You – fucks sake elf – you never touched my pack before – why now?”

He looks blankly at me.

“But – before – it was yours – we – I thought – I did not know your customs. But – now – we are vowed. Surely – if it is yours – it is mine also? You said.”

“Well, yes – and no.” Oh sweet Mahal, this is going to be one of those conversations, I realise, as he looks even more confused. “Right. So – if this was a room you were sharing with your – your group – as was – you – you would go digging about in their packs?”

“Yes, of course. If I had need to. And they were not there. I would tell them, of course, but – yes. Or pack for them, if need.” He pauses, “and so would hobbits – I have seen them. This is not ‘bloody weird elves’. Not this time.”

Hmph.

“Never mind about sodding hobbits,” I say, “the point is – dwarves would not. I – I would not look in my father’s pack without his leave. He would not tidy my mother’s clothes, mail, weapons, tools, any of it, without her leave – unless there was – I don’t know – some bloody urgency.”

He looks at me oddly.

“I thought you said – you said your parents – were vowed. Still. Loved each other?”

“Yes,” how can he ask? Of course they do. I can only hope we are as lucky as them, “what the sweet fuck has that to do with it?” I say.

He draws breath, and  
“So – you are telling me – that – despite being combmates, lovers, vowed, braided, despite that I wear your beads, and you mine – I may not touch your possessions? And if you leave them all over the room – I have to simply walk round them?”

“Yes.”

It is how dwarves do things.

“No,” he says, and I see – unusually – I see a glimpse of the steel hidden within him, “no. I am not living like that for the next – however long. I am not, Gimli. That is absurd. If you want your own room to keep in your way – very well. But if you wish to share a room with me – and I know you do – then you will let me touch your things. I am not trying to rob you, to harm you, to steal your secrets – what secrets do you have you would not give me?”

I shrug, and he continues.

“You decide. But if you are all the group, all the combmate, all the lover I need or want – then you will trust me.”

I look down, and prod something – I don’t know – a heap of clothes – with my toe.

“Seems wrong,” I say.

He waits. 

Elves, I have discovered, are rather good at waiting.

“Oh very well,” I give in, “But – don’t expect me to change. If you want to – fuss about – tidy – that is up to you. I have never been tidy, and I don’t bloody intend to start now.”

He laughs,  
“I know that, melethron-nin, and – if you recall – I started by saying it. However, if you find you rather like living in such a way that you can find your own things – then you might consider being more as I was told dwarves were – precise, and orderly. Or,” and now he is smiling in that way that I have discovered I would do almost anything to earn, “or you might wish to simply thank me.”

Bloody elf.

Obsessed with sex.

Still, it seems quite a good trade to me. Learn to let my elf be – elvish, and tidy up after me – and in return – fuck.

Definitely a worthwhile bit of cultural exchange.

 

 

 

 

**Three**

**Ithilien, Autumn Year One of the Fourth Age**

**(vowed some – six or seven months)**

Fucking Mahal. 

I am bloody furious. 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” Shouting now. I don’t care if the whole sodding colony of them can hear me. “What the fucking Valar do you think you are doing?”

He looks at me, and his pretty face isn’t guilty, isn’t remorseful, he doesn’t even seem to be aware he has done anything wrong.

“I was swimming,” he says, as though I am a fool, “it is warm. I like swimming. It – it is quite safe, Gimli-nin – this river is nothing like the Forest River, nothing like the rapids I learnt to swim in – melethron-nin, why are you worried about me?”

He looks so fucking innocent. So butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-pretty-mouth.

“Don’t you fucking ‘melethron-nin’ me,” I say, “I am not sodding worried about you. No. I am bloody furious. Is this all the love – devoted love – love for one only – that I was promised? Is this your version of being faithful? Being mine? What the fuck are you playing at?”

He looks – oh sweet elf – I want to believe – he looks as though – I don’t know – as though I have taken the branch from beneath his feet.

“Yours?” he says, “Of course I am yours. I am an elf, not one to change so quickly. Is that how dwarves are? Is that what I should be prepared for? For love to turn to anger like this?”

We stand and glare at each other a moment. 

It is just like old times, I think, and then – oh shit. 

Is it really just like old times? Are we misunderstanding again?

I breathe for a bit, trying to calm myself, making my fists relax, unclench. 

He – he is still angry.

“I understand none of your accusations,” he says, proud and disdainful, and then, like the prince he is, “but, dwarf, I am innocent. I love you, and I have done you no wrong.”

“Done me no wrong?” now I am angry again, “my One, my braided and declared One, yes, still wearing my beads – to strip off, to – to cavort naked with others, showing yourself off like – like any unloved tart – as though you look for more – as though I am not enough – and you say you do me no wrong?”

And now he – he is laughing.

How can he be laughing?

“Oh Gimli-nin,” he says, “when are we going to learn? I – you are more than enough. Always. And I – I do you no wrong, because these are elves. My elves. They have no more thought of me in – in that way – than – oh, you have no brothers, but if you did – than you would them. I – I have stripped, bathed, swum, run naked with these elves for – hundreds of years. It is how we are. We do not think about it. We are all works of Eru, and – and I suppose – because we do not know desire – not in the – the way you do – there is no reason to fuss.”

Fucking bloody weird elves.

“Seriously?” I say, “you seriously expect me to believe that – that no elf looks upon another and – and remembers what he sees with pleasure?”

Fucks sake, darling, I think, I know you are a bit naive, but really?

“Yes,” he shrugs, “ask any of them – but they will not even understand your question. Wait until – I think Caradhil said he planned for more to come – wait until there are some who are in love – ask them. They will understand, and they will give you the same answer.” He stops, and then, “I suppose – I suppose if two – are – almost – or are beginning to love – they might – look and – and learn to – to need – but – otherwise – no. It is how elves are.”

Bloody weird.

He goes on,  
“Does it matter so to you? I – I did not realise. I – I would have you understand – I need to know you trust me – you believe me – but – if you do – if you swear you do – then – then I suppose – I could – it would be odd, but – I do not wish to hurt you. I will swim only with you, or alone, if that is what you need from me.”

I nod and bite my lip – I feel cruel, but – I know myself well enough. 

“I can’t share you,” I say, “not even the look of you. I do believe you – elves are odd enough that I do – but no more. Sorry. I just can’t. Any more than – than you would wish to see me share another’s horse.”

That was a bit low, he has spoken of how much it hurt when I rode with Eomer, and he has admitted it was foolish – but – he flushes, oh my sweet elf, and I know I have won this one.

For now.

“Very well,” he says, “mind you, they will laugh. After all, some of them even taught me to swim – and my body has not changed much since he – they – held me in the water and let me learn its song.”

I always assumed elflings learnt to swim quite young.

“No,” he says, “not in our River. Perhaps others, who live near safer waters, but I – I was on my first patrol when I learnt.”

Indeed. 

Then I know who this ‘he’ was, and I have another reason to keep you clothed around bloody Caradhil.

He comes to me, and I hold him, and he – he sinks into my arms, and I know he is mine, he does not question it, in fact, I think he rather likes my possessiveness.

 

 

 

 

**Four**

**Aglarond, year 6 of the Fourth Age**

**(vowed some – five years)**

“What are you doing, elf?” he says, “We are not just wandering this time, and I thought half the bloody point of this new horse was to be able to take things from place to place?”

Yes, I did say that. I thought he would laugh if I admitted I just – feel sorry for Arod, alone so much. I thought he would like a friend.

Besides, Rochegen made it quite clear he had no intention of letting anyone else touch him – I did not want Eomer to be accusing me of subverting his horses. It seemed easier simply to play the elf – as Caradhil calls it – and claim Rochegen was now mine.

Anyway.

“Yes, I know,” I say, “but – these jewels – they are for the consort of Aglarond. I thought they should stay here.”

“Fucks sake, elf,” Oh. I am wrong again, “you are the bloody consort of Aglarond. They are your jewels. Or are you about to tell me your father never takes anything of worth outside his kingdom?”

I flush – I know, even if he does not, that the last time Ada left his kingdom was to – well – to try and claim jewels he – possibly – owned, from inside a certain mountain, on the death of a certain dragon. I think he took few jewels with him then.

Be honest, Legolas, he took nothing but his sword, his crown and battle armour – and as many warriors as he thought possible.

“I – that is different,” I say, stumbling, “I – he is King – an Elven-King – all that is in his realm is his. Every jewel, every weapon, every warrior, every elf. You – you are a dwarf-lord. I – I thought it was – different.”

He looks at me as though I am talking nonsense.

“Daft sodding elf,” he says, and I sigh, “of course it is bloody different. Not all in this realm is mine, that is for sure – but – did you just say – “every elf”?”

I shrug,  
“Yes. Of course. Ask any in Ithilien. Every elf in the Forest is his elf, to do as he commands. That is what being an Elven-King means. For that matter – every elf in Ithilien is his. They are still his elves.” Although – I noticed – last time we were there – I noticed a tendency to refer to things as belonging to Ithilien. Not to the ruler of Ithilien – Caradhil would never claim things for himself – but to all the elves of Ithilien.

However.

He frowns,  
“And what of you? Are you his elf? His son?”

I swallow, it is hard to say,  
“No. Not any more. If – if I ever truly was – no, I was, he just – oh you know I never – rarely – pleased him, I do not think he counts me as much loss. But – no. I am no longer his elf. He knows this. By braiding with you, by changing my title – he knows I am no longer his elf.” I look up from where I kneel on the floor and meet his eyes, “I am your elf.”

He smiles, and the sun shines in these dark halls.

“So I should bloody hope. Weird sodding elves. You are all mad. Come here, my pretty elf,” and I go to him, and he kisses me – and I care for nothing else.

After a time – and I know not how long – he stops, and I gaze up at him, his hands in my hair, mine entangled in his beard, watching him think.

“So. If you are my elf – and, I would like to point out, I am your dwarf – then these jewels – that are mine, earned by me, gifted to you – why do you think they should stay here when we travel?”

My dwarf. 

Yes, I suppose he is. I do not often think of it like that. But – yes.

And I feel warm.

Then I realise he is waiting for my answer.

“I – I was trying to think – of the most different it could be, so – instead of everything belonging to you, I thought – it must all belong to the realm,” I shrug, and then confess, “well, partly. And – last time – when we were in Ithilien – I wore some of them – and – Caradhil said – that he wondered how the workers of Aglarond felt to see their toil used to decorate an elven princeling – “ I stop. I should not have said that. They both are so careful not to argue – they know how it hurts me – I should think more carefully before I repeat their words. At least I did not say ‘idle, spoilt, thoughtless elven princeling’ which is what I know perfectly well he meant by ‘silly’.

But – of all things – my love is laughing.

“Oh your Caradhil,” he says, “he is quite – quite a thinker of new thoughts. That's interesting – I don’t have a word for what I mean in Westron. Anyway. These jewels – I crafted them, I earned their worth. Have I not explained to you before?”

I shake my head – thinking – well, if you did, I was not listening – I was – distracted – by whatever your hands were doing at the time.

He sighs,  
“Oh my ghivashel. Any dwarven realm – this among them – has currency. Remember? Money? Yes? And any work I do – I earn money. Which I use to buy things. Anything I take away – costs me.”

“I am not a child,” I say, crossly, and unreasonably – a dwarf-child knows of money, but I – I was many centuries old before I held a coin, “I know what money is.”

“Yes, but – everything has its value,” he answers me, and I realise he is serious, “all the paperwork I do, the planning, the talking to Eomer, all that adds up, just as the hours I actually spend with my tools. All the fighting I have done over the years. It all added. And the same for any here. And so – Droin keeps the records – when we came – we all had a share in the undertaking determined by what we had put in; it grows, it is drawn down. In my case, it is mostly then placed somewhere on your lovely body in the form of jewels. So, no, those are not the jewels of the consort of Aglarond in the sense you mean, they will not pass to the next to hold that title when we – go – wherever we go. They are your jewels. Always.”

Oh.

I smile.

But then I realise something else.

“Any here except me,” I say, “I put nothing in. I do no work. I – I take only. I live on your account, do I?”

I suppose it is no different to living on my lord King’s grace. 

Or indeed, at the whim of Caradhil.

But he looks at me as though I am a fool.

“Oh my daft sodding elf, have you no idea how valuable you are?” he says, and I laugh, 

“I know I am valuable to you,” I say, and I touch his ears, “that is all that matters to me.”

He shakes his head,  
“Go and talk to Droin sometime. That is all. I think you might be surprised.”

I shrug, not knowing or caring what he means, but – I do not leave the jewel chest in its usual place. I take it with us, and when we dine with Elessar, I am glad to wear my jewels, to show his court my beloved’s skill.

 

 

So it is months later that Droin sits with his books open before me and shows me exactly how much money – _money_ – I have. So much deducted for my keep, for Arod and Rochegen’s food, but so much earnt – _earnt_ – for each deer, so much for negotiations with Eomer, so much for writing my lord’s letters, his penmanship is appalling even by my standards, and – and so much for the hours of playing with dwarrowlings. 

“No,” I say, “no. I will not be paid for that. That is my – my choice. I – I would not have it thought I tell them tales, I sing to them, I – I hold them – only for money.”

Droin runs his hand through his hair, and I know he would be impatient – were Droin one to become impatient.

“I know,” he says, and by the way he does not meet my eye, I understand he does, that my Caradhil has said more to him of this than perhaps I really like. “I know you do not. But, prince, if you take not the payment, then you devalue the work of those who do.”

Oh. 

I had not thought of that. I look at him blankly, and, as ever, he has a solution.

“If you wish – there are some dwarrowlings here who have very little to their names. I can – if you like – move from your name to theirs. Or to – to a general fund – for any dwarrowling who is in need of – extras.”

And as I agree, I know he has had this prepared, and for an instant, I understand why my love sometimes mutters about Caradhil and his ways – but – what is the point in either of us being annoyed? The two of them are much better at such thoughts than we are.

I would still rather be me, and have my love’s arms about me every night.

And at that thought, I begin to plan what I will buy for my beloved with this money that is mine.

 

 

 

**Five**

**Aglarond, year 23 of the Fourth Age**

**(vowed – near twenty years)**

More jewellery.

I wait, to see what he has made this time.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and I smile, knowing he loves the sight of me in something new he has made.

I wait.

But, first, he kisses my ear, taking the tip into his mouth, and – oh and biting – and it feels so good – and he carries on – and then,

“Lovely,” he says, and I – I do not understand – how can he speak – perhaps it is his fingers on my ear – but it does not feel like fingers – and then – he does the same – whatever it is – to my other ear – and I – I gasp at the feeling – oh it feels good.

But then – then he strokes his hands over my eyes, and he says,  
“Perfect, oh my perfect elf, you look lovely,” but – I do not understand what he has done. I open my eyes, and then – then I see – he is not holding anything – and there is still the sensation on my ears – and I begin to understand.

I look at him, and I – I tell myself – it is only for us – between us there need be no shame – if he wishes to see me – like this – whatever it is he has done – I can bear it. It – it is not as though it feels unpleasant – not unpleasant at all. I flush even at the thought – because – it is – not unpleasant. Wonderful. It is – as though his hands, his mouth are on me – yet he is not – and – and I do not know the words – I need – oh I need him so. If no other sees – then – then I suppose it is well enough.

He smiles, and my heart flips, as ever, I am lost when he smiles at me.

“Come on love,” he says, “you are beautiful. But I – I am hungry. Besides, you know now what dwarven feasts are – the sooner they start, the sooner they finish – and the sooner we can come to bed.”

I do not think he is tired.

But – I realise – he wants – he expects me – to go – among his people – like this.

“I – what have you done?” I ask, hoping I am wrong, “What have you put on me?”

“Ear-cuffs,” he says, “I am not a fool, I would not pierce you. But they – oh love – your ears – your pretty pointy ears – do they feel good? I thought you would enjoy the feel.” He looks at me – at where I am – aroused – needing him, “I think you do. Very much.”

I am silent.

I do not know what to say, what to do.

How – he cannot – he cannot expect me to show myself to others like this.

Surely.

He loves me. He would not dishonour me so.

He does love me.

He does.

But, in this moment, all I can think of is all the rumours I have ever heard of dwarves, of their cunning, their ceaseless desire for revenge, their cruelty, their lack of honour, their hatred of elves – and I am afraid.

Have all these years been a lie?

A lie to bring me to this moment, to have me walk in public with his metal on my ears?  
Owned?

Am I nothing more than Thranduilion, to be humiliated in payment for Thranduil’s pride?

But even as I think it, I know it is not true, that is not how it is between us.

He does love me.

Whatever he wants, he shall have from me.

And so – so from sitting I move to kneel before him to ask him to forgive me.

“Whatever I have done,” I say, “I did not mean it. I am sorry, I know not how I have offended you, but I crave your pardon. Beloved, lord of my heart, do not punish me so,” I feel the tears start in my eyes, and I blink them away as I say again, “forgive me, Gimli-nin, forgive me.”

Yet – and I do not understand myself – when he reaches out, as he has learnt to do, and strokes my ears, and begins to tell me he is not cross, he does not understand why I am upset, he loves me, I need no forgiveness – all I can do is whimper in need, in pleasure, and plead with him,

“Do not – oh my lord – my love – do not take them off. Tighten them – oh please – Gimli – Gimli-nin – I need – oh that – that is so – please – more.”

I am shaking, with – with need, and desire, and the feeling of it – and at the same time – I know I make no sense, that he is confused – but I do not have words – I just need so badly. I reach out and cling to him, and I – I am moaning with it – and he – he is just stroking over my ears, and then – then he gives in – and tightens them – and oh – oh sweet Elbereth – more – I need – I need – and I am shaking, shaking with it, and I bury my face in his beard and cry out his name, over and over, and he holds me.

After a bit I am calmer – though I still could not bear him to remove them – and I can look at him, and – and he asks me,  
“What the fuck was all that about?”

And I laugh. Shakily, but I laugh. He does not change, this love of mine, he is as he is. Always. I should trust that.

“I – the ear-cuffs,” I say, “I – I did not realise – they would feel so good – I – is there a word for such things? Such feelings? I – you never told me – but – if you knew – why have you waited so long? And why pretend – that you wanted me to wear them in front of others? How could you tease me so?” and then I run my hands over him, feeling how much he enjoyed watching me like that, and I ask, “and what would you have in return, melethron-nin? My mouth?” I think I would like that, to use my mouth to please him, his hands in my hair, these strange jewels on my ears.

There is silence.

“Oh Mahal’s balls,” he says, “bloody weird elves. Fuck. I – I just thought ear-cuffs would make a nice change from necklaces, bracelets and the like. I am rather fond of your funny ears, I thought they would look pretty. Shit. I thought you would like the feel – but not like that. Sweet fucking Durin, not like that. I had no idea they would feel so good. But – do you mean you won’t wear them in public?”

Oh.

Again.

Still, after all this time, there are things we do not understand.

“How can I?” I ask, “When they feel like that? I – it is as though you are touching me – only – more. Harder. I – I thought perhaps – there is something dwarves wear – somewhere else – that is like that?”

He blinks, and I see that – for once – I have shocked him,

“There are,” he says, “but I am not going to. It is not even up for discussion. No nipple clamps, no cock rings, no. Nothing of that sort. It is – odd. Sweet Durin, I shall be taking those away, and melting them down. I will think of something else to make you.”

Even as I wonder what in Arda those things he mentions are – and how he knows of them – I put my hands over my ears, protectively,

“You most certainly will not,” I say, “no. I forbid it. I – I will learn to wear them in front of your dwarves – I cannot wear them in front of elves – but I will learn to wear them in your Halls if that is what you wished. And – and you will let me wear them when we are alone. Fastened tightly.”

We glare at each other.

It is just like old times, I think, and I see he has the same thought, when he says, 

“Daft sodding elf. I can see I will not win this. I – I suppose it is up to you. Still seems – odd though. I thought we had established you did not care for such power games.”

I shrug,  
“I might if they all felt this good,” and I wonder how it will feel when he removes them, and the blood can rush back into my aching ear-points, how the sensation will feel then, whether it will overwhelm me completely, and I – I long for it – but – not yet, oh not yet, I want to please him first, like this, bejewelled for him – so I lick my lips to add, “let me show you just how grateful I am for these gifts.”

We do not make it to the feast at all.

 

 

 

 

**Plus One**

**Faramir’s Ithilien, Year 31 of the Fourth Age**

**(vowed – about thirty years)**

“Oh sweet Mahal preserve us,” he says, “not more sodding kittens.”

I smile, I know there was a time when that tone of voice would have had me reluctantly putting these bundles of fluff down, and walking away, and thinking I need do so lest he become really angry.

“Yes, more sodding kittens,” I say. “look, tortoiseshell ones, are they not lovely? I am told that means they are female – and supposed to be good rat-catchers. Maybe we should take some to Caradhil. He is not fond of rats.” 

In fact, I think I have actually heard him speculating on whether the giant spiders were originally bred to keep down rats, they are such a nuisance. He blames Men, but – Caradhil would. I do not, in fairness, think that his elves are so very much more careful with their grain stores.

Anyway.

He grins, he knows my poor Caradhil is not sure that the cats are better than the rats. 

“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea,” he says, “Legolas-nin, I always enjoy watching Finbonaurion find a way to thank you for kittens.”

Faramir has come out now, someone must have told him we have arrived, and he looks to see what we are discussing.

“Are you wanting some of our kittens again, lord Legolas?” he asks, courteous as ever, “bring them inside, and my wife shall explain their personalities to you in more detail than one could think necessary, while Gimli and I begin to discuss this matter of another river-crossing.”

There is a silence.

My love and I look at each other.

There is so much wrong with that suggestion that I am not sure where to start.

Fortunately my beloved lord is more forthright than I.

“No point talking to me, Steward,” he says, and I know he is affronted on my behalf by his use of titles, “I rule Aglarond, not Ithilien. It is Thranduilion, lord of the elves of Ithilien, prince of Eryn Lasgalen you need persuade.” 

Well, I think, actually it is Caradhil. But since he has sent me, to use my name, my war-record, I will do my best. I will not let him down, not this time.

Although I might take him kittens.

Faramir is duly abashed – and I must sit and talk in the manner of Men with him for what seems like hours. There are times when I miss that young, unsure ranger, times when I even miss his prickly, difficult brother – one thing about Boromir, he was not overly wordy – this one, this one could rival Noldor for pointless politeness.

The matter of the kittens is left.

The afternoon stretches to evening, and I suppose we should simply be grateful there is, for once, something drinkable at Faramir’s table. 

Eventually we are shown to one of the guest chambers, and I think – at last, at last, and I would have my arms about my beloved, hands on his ears, hands in his hair, needing combing – it has been so long, so long since this morning when we sat by the remains of last night’s fire, and – and put ourselves to rights.

“Bloody Faramir,” he says, as he unlaces his tunic, “talks too much, and too long. And that hall is too hot.”

“Mmm, he does, it is,” I say, distracted by the sight, making no sense, hearing not my own words, for the sight of my love – oh my love – his chest – his inkings – the slow reveal – and I know he is doing it deliberately, he has seen how my breathing changes, he is smiling, and I care for nothing, I want only for him to hold me, touch me, kiss me, let me touch him, but then, “what do you mean, too hot? If you were hot, why not – why not remove some of your mail?”

He looks at me as though I am witless,

“Because, my daft sodding elf, currently Faramir thinks I am intelligent and competent, and – and all the things he doubts you are. Currently Eowyn respects me. If I were to have removed any of these layers – I think the number of bites you left on my neck last night might somewhat change their opinions. And it is hard enough to have them remember to respect you – if they believe we are both besotted there will be no point us even trying to shoulder some of the negotiations for Caradhil – and you do not want him to have to leave his elflings more than he must.”

Oh.

No. 

Elflings need their Ada.

I know little of elflings, but I know that.

I avoid the sticky emotional trap of speaking of elflings and Adas though, instead I say,

“Gimli-nin, melethron, we _are_ both besotted.”

And he laughs as he pulls me to him, as I have wanted to be for – for all the hours since he last held me close. Then clothes can be undone, and thrown aside, and – and as he walks me towards the bed, all is well in my world.

Until,  
“Oh for fucks sake. Bloody Men. And their bloody cats.”

I turn and look, and – yes. Oh sweet Elbereth. I thought – I thought Faramir was not serious. Or meant – bring the kittens into the outer Hall. 

I – I had heard Eowyn speak of her brother, and his Cat, and how Cat follows him everywhere, sleeps on his bed, and – and I had thought she could not be serious. Or that it was some – strange – habit of Eomer’s, an eccentricity a king may be allowed.

But – on our bed – on our bed – oh dear Yavanna – is a bundle of cats. I cannot see how many, I do not care.

“We had best not be overly – vocal – in our complaints,” I say, restraining my love as he is about to throw them out, “perhaps it would cause offence.”

“They are on our bed. Leaving hair and – and cat – cat-ness – where I wish to fuck my beloved ghivashel. It is not me who is causing offence.” He is very angry, and I bite my lip.

“I agree, totally,” I say, “Gimli-nin – you know I do. This – I love cats, and kittens, and indeed horses, but – not in the bedroom. Not indoors. Men. They are filthy creatures at heart.” I pause, thinking, then, “but best not to offend against custom. There is a door out onto the balcony there. Why do we not fold the covers around them, and put them out there, with the door shut?”

It is a shame to shut out the night, the stars, but – it is necessary.

He agrees, and we do.

I think I would be happy to remove only the top cover, but he – he is even more horrified than I – and so they must all go out.

“Will you not be cold?” I ask – it is not a warm evening, even with the window shut, the fireless room is chill, and for a moment I miss the comfort of a group to comb and reverie among, even though it is not I that will suffer from the bite of the air.

Once more, he grins at me, and – and throws off his remaining clothes.

“No,” he says looking at me, watching me as I also strip, “no, I have no intention of being cold. Come here and warm me, my pretty elf.”

I smile.

And when he is at last sleeping, I watch over him, and think – we may never reach perfect understanding, there may always be things about him that surprise me – and things he finds – what is it – ‘bloody weird elf-habits’ – but – one thing at least we agree on.

Men are decidedly more peculiar than either of our races.


End file.
